Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

The first time they come in, they're just another customer.

A very attractive customer, truth be told. They have long black hair threaded with silver, pulled back into a neat braid, and a thin face with a prominent nose that your mother would call "beaky" but you think is very elegant. Their scuffed dark denim jacket is covered in enamel pins, including several pride pins and one shaped like a Highland cow that you covet immediately. A small emerald stud glints in one ear to round out their look. You sternly tell yourself not to stare, and focus on the woman in front of you giving a complicated latte order.

And that's all they would have been—just an attractive customer—if it weren't for what happens when they reach the counter.

You smile at them as they step up. "Hi, what can I get started for you?" 

They look up at you with wide eyes, and at first you think you've just caught them off guard, but their expression when they look at you is—

"Deer in the headlights" is the cliche that jumps immediately to mind, if the deer's face could also convey a mix of horror and sadness and strange joy so strong that it seems the stranger stops breathing entirely. It's so unexpected that you in turn are caught in their gaze, and for a moment you are both just frozen there, staring at each other.

(Some rear part of your brain notes with surprise that their eyes are brown. You don't know why, but for some reason you expected them to be green.)

It's about at that point that you realize you've spent rather longer than is strictly polite staring into this stranger's eyes.

"Sorry, I—are you all right?"

The question seems to shake them out of their reverie, and they blink, their cheeks darkening with embarrassment.

 "I'm—yes—I-I-I'm sorry, I—um—just an earl grey tea, please."

You nod, grateful to have a script to fall back on, something to ground you in the strangeness of this encounter.

"Sure thing. Can I get a name for the order?"

They suck in a sharp breath, as though the question pains them. 

"Jon," they say. "It's—it's Jon."

"Nice to meet you, Jon," you almost say, as a joke to lighten the atmosphere—but something tells you you're better off biting your tongue, and you finish the transaction in silence. Jon seems grateful not to have to talk, giving only a nod of thanks before moving away.

You can't help but watch them go, wondering what it was they saw in your face that made them look like that—wondering why watching them walk away makes you feel so inexplicably sad.

They hover near the end of the counter as you take the next order, and it seems like they're making a conscious effort to look anywhere but back at you.

There's a lull after you take the next few orders, so you go ahead and make their tea for them to take your mind off things. Four minutes' steep for the earl grey, and when it's done, you add a splash of cream and a spoonful of honey without thinking before putting on a lid to bring it over. 

It's not until you go to hand it over to them and see them staring at you that you realize what you've done.

"Oh, god. I'm so sorry," you say. "We usually never put anything in unless you ask, I don't know why I—I can make you another if you don't mind waiting a few minutes, I'm so sorry—"

But they've already taken the cup from you as you're babbling.

"No, it—it's no trouble." They take a sip, and for a moment it looks like there are tears in their eyes. But then they smile, a small smile that softens all the hard angles of their face in a lovely way that definitely doesn't set your heart fluttering in your chest. "It's perfect. Thank you, Martin."

"O-of course," you say, and you're about to ask how they know your name until you remember that name tags exist.

There's still something sad about their smile, and even as you watch it wobbles, replaced by an expression of such grief that it hurts to look at. You almost ask what's wrong, but then you are called back to the register, and by the time you are finished and turn back to look for them, Jon is gone.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't spend the rest of the shift thinking about them. Wondering what it was about a cup of earl grey that brought tears to their eyes. 

It's not until you go to the back to gather your things and go home that you notice your name tag sitting at the bottom of your locker, where it must have fallen off your apron. 

You haven't been wearing it all day.

Martin,

I know you'll never read this. I know I'm writing to a version of you that no longer exists. It hurts to think it, still. The fact that you're gone. But I'm writing anyway, because I miss you, more than I can put into words. 

And because I saw you today, for the first time since I arrived here.

I'm ashamed to say I had given up on ever finding you. I used to look for you everywhere. When I first woke up I was certain you must be near, that we had just gotten separated but that we would find each other again, somehow.

One way or another, together.

I'm not sure when I stopped looking. When the hope began to hurt too much to keep holding onto. But I know that I did not expect to see you standing at the register of that coffee shop, of all places, looking so much like you used to, back at the beginning. You looked wonderful (you always look wonderful), and it took my breath away.

I could tell straight away you didn't know me. The way you looked at me, that polite smile that might fool someone who hasn't seen your real one, but holds such a small fraction of your warmth.

It took nearly everything in me to not just run away. And then everything that was left to not just stare at you the entire time. I hope I didn't make you too uncomfortable.

Your eyes are brown again. I had gotten so used to them being grey, the dark grey of the sky before a storm. I had forgotten how your eyes used to look—that lovely deep brown, like agate. I don't think I ever told you how much I loved your eyes, no matter the color.

I always found it difficult to put into words all the different things I loved about you. Even at the end. In some ways, it is freeing, knowing that you will never read this, knowing that this is only a record for myself of all the things I wish I could say to you. I can embarrass myself as much as I like in these pages, and there is no one to see.

Still. What I wouldn't give to have you here to tease me about it.

I've told myself I'm going to leave you alone, now that I've seen you, now that I know you are here and alive and safe. You have a life here, and you don't need me to come in and ruin it, to try to bring back memories of all those terrible years. For all I know, there are no memories to bring back. This could be another version of you entirely.

It would be better for everyone if I kept my distance. It would only hurt to go back, to try to see you again, knowing you'll look at me with that same polite customer-service smile. Knowing it's not really you.

No good can come of it. There are dozens of other coffee shops in the city. Hundreds. There is no reason to go back. None at all.

(I can hear you laughing at me. It's not fair that you can do that even when you're not here.)

I love you. Always.

Jon

P.S. I can't stop thinking about one thing. 

You knew how I take my tea.

We've never met in this reality, but you made my tea exactly right.

After that day, you find yourself looking for Jon during your shifts. Every time the door opens, you glance over, hoping to see them walk through—but weeks pass and there is no sign of them.

You're not even sure why you're so invested. There are plenty of pretty strangers who pass through the coffee shop, even a few regulars that you've struck up a tentative friendship with, but it's always casual, and it never leaves the boundaries of the shop. 

Jon was just another attractive customer, but for some reason you can't stop thinking about them—about the sadness in their face when they looked at you, or the way you somehow managed to make their tea the way they liked it on the first try. The fact that somehow, they knew your name.

You've barely met them, but somehow, you already miss them.

Eventually, as the weeks pass, you stop looking up every time the bell at the door sounds. At this point, it seems unlikely that they'll come back. Maybe they were only in the area that day. Maybe whatever reaction they had when they saw you meant something, and they're actively avoiding the place. (You hope not. You hope it isn't you.)

You still think about them whenever anyone orders earl grey, or whenever you see someone wearing a denim jacket with enamel pins. You hope that wherever they are, whatever they're doing, they're okay.

Martin,

I realized today that it's been nearly two years since I (we?) arrived here. When I first woke up, I didn't leave the flat for several days. But when I did, I was surprised to see that it was spring—a proper spring, with flowering trees and daffodils coming up in the neighbors' garden. The sight was almost too much. Blue sky and flowers.

The weather is beginning to turn again, and I'm thinking about that time, and how far I've come since then.

I like to think you would be proud of me. 

I have a therapist now. It took a while for me to find the right way to couch the truth in words that wouldn't send them screaming immediately but—it's helping, I think.

I'm doing my best not to isolate myself. I wouldn't say I have a thriving social life, but I have friends from work who drag me out for drinks sometimes, and who are actually excited to come with me to a museum. I'm even in a group chat, though I rarely say anything. It's pleasant, watching the banter flow back and forth.

It's nice to know that if I were to disappear, someone would probably notice. It seems a terribly low bar, but it's more than I had for many years in our world.

I am endeavoring to live, Martin. It's difficult. Sometimes it feels impossible. But anytime I contemplate doing the opposite, I see your face, the way you looked at me when you asked me to promise to try. I wasn't able to keep that promise to you then—not in the way you would have wished me to. So I am trying now, as best I can.  

I miss you.

Love,

Jon

II.

It's been just over two months since you saw Jon. Your heart still clenches when you see a customer come in with long salt-and-pepper hair or a jean jacket, but otherwise, you've nearly managed to stop thinking about them at all. Even if you hadn't, you would have had very little brain to think about them today. It's the lunch rush, and the weather outside is abysmal, a stinging rain that is whipped about by the wind so it patters hard against the windows. The manager has compensated by cranking the heating, with the result that it is absolutely sweltering inside. Everyone in line is impatient and wet and grumpy, and you in turn are sweating through your jumper, focusing all your mental energy on getting the orders in right and not snapping at the more entitled customers who think if they berate you the register will somehow work faster.

You are focused enough that you're not paying attention to the line beyond the person in front of you, so this time it's your turn to start in surprise and delight when you look up to the next person and discover it's Jon.

Their hair is up in a bun this time, a little damp and frizzy from the rain, and a couple strands coming loose on either side of their face. They're wearing the same jacket, this time over a T-shirt for a band or maybe a podcast—something you don't recognize. 

You can't help smiling when you see them.

"Oh, hello!"

They don't startle like last time—they don't even seem surprised to see you at the register again. They smile a little, and their smile still has that sadness to it, but it's different now. Maybe a little resigned, or rueful.

"Hello," they say softly.

"Earl grey tea, wasn't it? With milk and honey?" 

They glance up at you in surprise. "Oh, um, yes, that's—you remembered?"

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks—it's only now you realize it might be a bit strange that you remembered their order after only one interaction.

"Well, yeah. I-I've got a good memory for—for orders. And–um—and that."

This is not fully a lie; you are fairly good at remembering what people like. But it usually takes you more than one time to get it right. 

From the moment you saw them, there was very little danger of you forgetting Jon.

After you finish ringing them up, you manage to persuade Hannah to switch out with you on the register for a bit, so you can take over making drinks. You feel a little duplicitous about it, and a part of you worries she'll call you out, but she just winks at you as she swaps places with you at the counter and turns her attention to the next customer.

When you make Jon's tea, you hesitate for a moment before adding milk and honey the same as before. They seemed to like it last time, and there is something satisfying about preparing the cup to their liking, rather than just handing it to them with the bag still in it.

They take the cup from you with both hands and that same soft smile. It feels like an achievement, somehow, getting that smile from them, and it fills you with a sort of fizzy warmth.

They open their mouth to thank you, and then they stop, staring at their name where you've written it on the side of the cup. You realize you hadn't asked them for their name, this time, and you wonder if maybe they find it strange that you remembered their name as well as their order. Or maybe you spelled it wrong—you hadn't even thought to ask.

"Did I get it wrong? I know most people spell it with the 'h', but for some reason I thought—"

"No, no," they say. "You got it right. Most—most people don't."

"Oh, good." 

Before you can say anything else, they say, "Well, um, thank you," and nod awkwardly before making a beeline for the door.

You're left staring after them, hoping their coming back today means maybe you'll see them again, and wondering why it feels so important that you do.

Martin,

I went back.

I'm sure you're very surprised.

I tried to stay away, I really did. For weeks I avoided that part of town completely (easy enough, really, as it's mostly overpriced restaurants and oddly specific boutiques). I did my best to keep myself busy.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the way you made my tea.

I know it probably doesn't mean anything. I know it's foolish to hope. But you looked as startled as I was at what you had done, and I couldn't help wondering if maybe, if I just went back…

Of course, it wasn't that simple. There wasn't a magic moment where you looked me in the eye and suddenly everything came back.

But you remembered me.

Not fully, not in the way I'd hoped, but—you remembered I'd been there before. You remembered my order.

You remembered my name .

Hope is such a dangerous thing, Martin. Despair feels safer, because if you have already given up then you know you can never be disappointed. With hope, there is always something left to lose. 

I've told myself not to expect anything, not to hope for too much, because I'm so afraid of what will happen if that hope proves false.

But I can't help it. You remembered my name, and I—

I can't help but hope.

I love you. Thank you for the tea.

Jon

Jon's reappearance buoys you through the next week, and you go into your shifts with renewed hope that you might see them again. You allow yourself small fantasies of chatting with them —maybe you'll comment on the weather, and they'll agree that it's terrible (because March weather is always terrible). Or maybe you'll ask them about the pins on their jacket, and mention that you have a few of your own but no good place to wear them, and then they'll—

You're getting carried away, Martin.

Your mother's voice has always been so loud in your head. Especially this month.

March is a difficult month every year, and even the prospect of Jon can't really change that. You sometimes wonder what sort of cosmic joke the universe thought it was pulling when it put your mother's birthday and Mother's Day on the same day. You try, every year, because she's your mother and she's ill and she deserves something nice, even if she never—

Anyway.

You can't make it down to Devon this year because of your work schedule, so you send some flowers (resolving not to think too hard about the cost of the shipping), and call her in the morning before your shift. 

She's...the way she is. It's fine. It doesn't matter.

But then the call takes longer than you thought it would, and you end up missing your train, and the one after is delayed because of something on the tracks, so by the time you arrive at the shop you're fifteen minutes late and out of breath from running all the way from Pimlico. Diana gives you a stern warning, and you nod and try to tell yourself that the unevenness in your breath is just from running. 

She puts you on register for the whole first part of your shift, which you normally don't mind, but days when you talk to your mother are never your…best days for dealing with people. And on top of that, it seems that every asshole in Chelsea is also having a bad day today and has decided to make it your problem. 

By one o'clock you are nursing a splitting headache, and the only thing keeping you from snapping back at the next dickhead who tries to argue with you is that you really don't need to cap off this spectacular day by losing your job.

Then Jon comes through the door, and for the first time, you aren't happy to see them.

Well, that's not strictly true—a part of you does thrill at the fact that they've come in again, so soon after the last time they were here. But you are not at your best, to put it mildly, and Jon seems like just the sort of person that would notice that and ask if you're alright, and you're pretty sure if that happens you will just burst into tears right there.

(If you had a moment to reflect, you might wonder why you are so sure that Jon would notice that you're upset. You've exchanged all of five sentences, all strictly about tea and names. You don't know anything about them, not really. But somehow, you are certain that they would care.)

You pretend to be occupied with something on the register so you don't have to look them in the eye as they approach.

"Hello, Martin," they say, and right, you never did ask them how they knew your name, that first day. You don't have the energy to go down that path today.

"Hi," you say, and you feel bad that it comes out so short and clipped. You try to soften your tone a little. "Earl grey?"

"Yes, thank you."

They study you for a moment, and you've never felt so thoroughly examined in such a short time. Their brown eyes (not green, why do you keep thinking they should be green?) seem to see right through you. You're sure they're going to mention your reddened eyes, your obvious bad mood.

But they say nothing. Instead their eyes drift over to the pastry case, examining it with that same intense gaze.

"And could I also get a—a chocolate croissant, please."

Your heart drops. It's stupid, but chocolate croissants are your favorite, and you've been eyeing the last one, hoping that no one will buy it before your break so you can snag it. A little treat, to make up for how crap the rest of the day has been.

But of course it is just that kind of day, and Jon of all people has taken even your pastry dreams away from you.

"You got it," you say, and you sternly tell yourself that you are not going to cry over a damn pastry. But it's a close thing. "Would you like it warmed up?"

Suddenly Jon seems to have trouble meeting your eyes.

"A-actually I was going to—I wanted you to have it. For—for your break, or after your shift." 

"Oh." Had they noticed your reaction when they ordered it? Christ, how embarrassing. "That's—you don't have to do that—"

"No-no, I'd like to—if it's not too forward. I—it seemed like you could use—well, something nice. And there was only one left, and I don't know how long you have left and I thought—a-anyway." 

They stop abruptly, becoming suddenly very interested in the little display of cake pops by the register. For a moment you aren't sure what to say. You had been afraid that Jon's sympathy would make you feel worse about today, but somehow they found just the right way to actually make you feel a little better.

"That's really—thanks, Jon."

And there it is again, that soft, slightly sad smile. "Of course."

At that point the man standing behind Jon clears his throat pointedly. Jon startles and flushes, quickly pulling out their card to pay. The line has grown again behind them, so you're stuck at the register this time, and one of the others ends up making their drink. As you ring up the next customer (half-caf oat milk vanilla latte), you steal a glance at Jon, who is carefully adding a splash cream and a squeeze of honey to their cup. They stir and take a sip and you swear they wrinkle their nose a little bit (which is unfairly adorable) before giving a rueful shake of their head.

Then, instead of making a beeline to the exit as they usually do, they hover at the door for a moment. You can see them out of the corner of your eye as you take the next order (small Americano, black), not quite watching you, but oriented in your direction. You catch their eye as Small Americano leaves, and they smile again, raise their cup to you, then duck out the door before you can do more than smile back.

The shift continues, the customers are customers, but for the rest of the day, that smile sits like a candle-flame of warmth in your chest, a glow that keeps the hellishness of the day at bay. And later, you eat the pastry Jon saved for you, and let everything else fade for a little while as you savor the sweetness.

III.

Martin,

I only have one question: why did you choose to work at a coffee shop in Chelsea, of all places?

Apart from it being proof that the universe has a terrible sense of humor, making us walk past the corner where the Institute should be, it is just so very far away. I never thought I'd have to regularly make the journey into Chelsea again, but here we are.

Of course, if I had to walk an extra hour each direction, I would still go, just to be able to see you.

I think you're doing better, lately. At least as far as I can tell from the brief exchanges we have at the register. What I wouldn't give to have a real conversation—but I know it's not a good idea.

It's enough, to see you. To have you smile at me when you see me come in—not your customer service smile, but a real smile. To talk to you, even if it's just about inconsequential things. 

(This is a lie. Of course it's not enough. We stand on either side of a counter and chat about our days and it makes my chest ache with all the things I want to say to you but can't. I still keep going back, though, because the alternative is not seeing you at all.)

I still hope that something I say or do might trigger a memory—I will admit I have even tried dropping a few key words into our conversation. Nothing yet. 

All my love,

Jon

Martin,

 I can feel it. The Eye.

I knew it would be here, eventually. We followed the Fears out of our world and into this one; we brought all that terror and suffering into this world along with us, and even though it's been months—years—and I felt nothing I knew that it was only a matter of time.

It's not as strong as it was in our world, even at the beginning. But it's there. And I hate it. I hate that it is a constant reminder of what we–what I did to this world. I hate that it still has its hooks in me, after everything.

I don't know what to do.

All I want to do is talk to you about it and I can't. It's not fair, that you're here and yet not, that I can go see you but I can't talk to you about anything that matters.

I miss you. I miss you so much.

I don't want to do this without you.

I don't know how to do any of this alone, I

Alone.

Oh, Christ, Martin

[There is a long streak of ink across the page, as though the pen was thrown down in haste.]

It's May, and the weather has finally begun to warm after a long, cold, drawn-out spring. The door of the shop is propped open to catch the breeze, and you're taking advantage of a lull to get some early cleaning done when Jon bursts in looking like they ran most of the way there.

It's not one of their usual days—they've been coming in more often, so you've been seeing them nearly every week the last few months, but they don't usually come in on Fridays. They're dressed much more casually than usual, in joggers and a faded jumper, and their hair is half falling out of the hasty bun they've pulled it back into. 

They look around with a wild expression that, were it not for the environment—an empty coffee shop on a Friday—you would have said looked almost like terror. When they see you, it seems like they relax a little. It's just a minute drop of the shoulders, so small you might have imagined it (probably imagined it, why would the sight of you make them feel less afraid?), but you take it as a good sign.

They quickly cross to the counter.

"Martin."

The way Jon says your name is…different, somehow, from how they've said it before, although you'd be hard-pressed to say what exactly is different. Their voice is hoarse, and as they approach you see with some concern that their eyes are red, like they've been crying. They're still a little out of breath.

"Hi, Jon," you say, and it sounds a little trite, with how Jon is looking at you.

They don't respond—it seems almost that they didn't even hear you. They're looking at you much the same way they did the day they bought you a pastry: like they're examining you, somehow looking deep into your soul. 

If it were anyone else, you think, you'd be a little frightened. You don't like being looked at, usually. But somehow being seen by Jon feels…right? Familiar?

Even so, it's hardly their usual behavior. 

"Are–are you…okay?"

Jon starts, and when they finally meet your eyes, all the intensity of their gaze is gone. Instead they just look deeply mortified.

"Yes. Yes, I—" Jon passes a hand over their face. "I'm fine, I just. I'm sorry. I never should have—" Then, to your horror, their face crumples, and they look ready to burst into tears on the spot. "I'm sorry."

"Hey—hey, Jon, it's okay." You thank whatever power might be watching that the shop is empty as you quickly come around the counter to Jon. "Come sit down for a minute, okay?"

You motion towards one of the tables by the window and reach out to them, but then you hesitate. You don't know how they feel about being touched, especially when they're in distress. Luckily, Jon seems to follow your gesture readily enough. They cross to the table and sit, and immediately press their fingers to their eyes under their glasses, taking deep shaky breaths.

You feel infinitely helpless, standing there watching Jon try not to cry. You want to hug them, tell them that it will be all right (even though, since you know nothing of the situation, you have no idea if it's true).

 "I'm sorry," Jon says again, and you wring your hands together to keep from reaching out to them.

"No need to apologize, please. We all have those days."

Jon gives a sad little laugh. "Yes, I suppose so."

They take another deep breath and drop their hands to their lap, letting them dangle limp between their legs. Their shoulders are slumped in a posture of such despair that you find yourself desperate to do something, anything to help.

"Hang on, I'll be right back."

Jon nods tiredly and doesn't look up.

The pastry selection at three o'clock on a Friday afternoon doesn't leave much to choose from: a plain croissant, two kouign amanns, and a lemon tart. You pick the lemon tart on instinct, arrange it on a plate with a few berries and a bit of icing sugar, then set about making a cup of tea in one of the nice ceramic mugs the owner got from some local pottery.

(You have a moment when you wonder if it's too much, if you're going overboard. Then you look over at Jon, who has slumped down to hold their head in their hands, and you decide you don't care.)

Jon doesn't sit up at first when you return with your bounty. You set the plate and cup down as gently as possible in front of them, but they still startle upright, almost as if they had started to fall asleep. You notice there are deep purple shadows under their eyes.

You decide not to mention it.

"About time I returned the favor," you say. "There are a few others if you—if you don't like the lemon, but—anyway."

"It's perfect, Martin. Thank you," Jon says softly, and something undefinable flits across their face. "Lemon is—one of my favorites, actually."

"Oh. Good, I-I'm glad."

You linger for a moment by Jon's table, unsure. 

It's a bad habit of yours, that moment of uncertainty whether you're still needed (never wanted , but needed ), one that usually lasts until someone snaps at you to move. 

Don't hover , Martin, for pity's sake, your mother says in your head, and you unconsciously nod in agreement. Jon needs space, you tell yourself, and you have work to do. 

But when you turn to go, Jon looks up sharply and opens their mouth like they're about to say something. Then they snap their lips shut and look back at their plate—almost as if they're upset to see you go.

So you take a risk.

"Jon, do you—do you want company, for a bit?"

Jon shakes their head.

"You don't have to—I don't want you to get in trouble."

You shrug. "I'm on my break," you say, throwing a glance over at Hannah, who gives a little roll of her eyes but nods. "And there's no one else here, anyway."

Jon hesitates for a moment, an expression darkening their face like they're at war with themself. Then their fingers tighten on their fork and they nod.

"Please. I-I'd like it if you—please stay."

"Of course."

You sit down across from them. You're not quite sure what to do with yourself—where to put your hands, where to look. You look at Jon's plate, rather than at Jon, as they take a careful forkful of the tart and stab a blueberry to go with it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask, and immediately kick yourself as Jon tenses, hunching in on themself.

"No. I-I can't."  

Their hand is clenched into a tight fist next to their mug. You have a strong urge to reach out and take it, to run your thumb over the smooth skin of their knuckles until their fingers unclench. 

You don't, of course.

Instead you just lean back in your chair, trying to loom as little as possible.

"That's okay," you say, as gently you can. "We can just sit, if you like."

And so you sit. Jon makes their way steadily through their tart and tea, and you try not to just sit and watch them eat. Taking out your phone feels rude, and so you eventually go grab some napkins that need folding, just to have something to do with your hands.

The silence is surprisingly companionable. You are used to feeling the need to fill even a few moments' silence with chatter, but somehow with Jon, it doesn't matter as much. 

After a few minutes, they sit back in their chair, taking a sip their tea.

You finish the napkin you are folding and add it to your stack. Start another. You want to ask Jon about what just happened, but they've already said they don't want to talk about it, and you can't think of anything else to say. So you let the silence sit, and continue your folding.

Jon cradles their mug against their chest, watching you fold the next napkin into careful thirds.

"Are you…how are you, Martin?" they ask finally.

You actually stop to think before replying, rather than giving your standard "I'm fine" answer.

" I-I'm all right. The shift's been fine, no disasters or anything. And I—" You hesitate. You don't talk about your personal life to—well anyone much, really. At least not here. But Jon feels…safe. You can't think of any other way to put it.

"I actually have a—a poetry thing tonight. Like an open mic, not a formal thing, but. Yeah."

Jon smiles, the first full smile you've seen on them today. It lights up their whole face.

"Martin, that's wonderful."

"Yeah, it's—they're fun. Everyone there is really supportive, which is nice. We go out for drinks after, sometimes."

"It sounds lovely."

You're not sure why you say it. Perhaps it's just like everything else to do with Jon—like their tea, like the way they smile at you, it just feels right.

"You should come," you say, and then try to not look surprised that you actually said it out loud.

"Oh—I—" Jon looks unsure, and you immediately feel yourself start to flush.

"O-only if you want to. I know poetry's not—not everyone's thing. And you might have plans, I don't mean to assume—but yeah, if you're not doing anything else, I thought it might help—c-clear your head or distract you or—I'll stop talking now."

"No, it's all right. I—" They stop. That same expression crosses their face again—the one they had when you asked if they wanted you to stay. Like they're having some sort of internal argument. (You try not to read too much into this). Then they smile tentatively. 

 "I—I would love to."

"Oh! Great! Great, I'll—I'll text you the address?"

There's nothing special about the ensuing exchange of phone numbers, but you are still filled with a bubbling giddiness when Jon hands your phone back to you and you see Jon Sims (last name!) listed as a new contact.

You don't think you are imagining the way they smile a little at their phone when they receive your text, either.

"I should let you get back to work," Jon says then, and sure enough when you look down at your watch it has definitely been more than fifteen minutes, and Hannah is giving you a pointed stare.

"Oh, right, yeah." You stand too quickly, and barely stop your chair from clattering to the ground. "But I-I'll see you tonight?"

"Yes," they say, and there's a quality to their voice you've never heard before. Somewhere between wistful and wondering. "I'll see you tonight."

Martin,

I think, against my better judgment, we may be becoming friends.

It was unwise of me, I know, to rush over to see you like I did. But I had to be sure. If I can feel the Eye again, then other Entities may be gaining strength and I had—I had to check.

There were no signs of the Lonely on you that I could see. Thank god for that.

Of course, I still managed to make an utter fool of myself. 

You were so kind. I shouldn't be surprised, of course—it's you, after all—but you stayed with me. Even though I'm practically a stranger to you. I was grateful for the company, but I have to admit there was a terrible, selfish part of me that wanted more. Sitting across the table from you, unable to reach out and take your hand, was perhaps the most exquisite form of torture I've ever encountered.

Perhaps that's why I said yes to the poetry reading. It was an indulgence on my part; I shouldn't have gone, and I certainly shouldn't have let you persuade me to exchange numbers. I told myself that I was just going to really make sure that you were all right, but. Well. You would tell me I've always been good at lying to myself.

Your poetry is still exactly as Romantic and Keatsian as it ever was, and I love it wholeheartedly.

I'm glad you have found others who encourage you in it, and who (presumably) actually like Keats. They seem like good people. The tall one—Jeremy, I think?—reminded me a little of Tim. It was the way he smiled, and how he threw his arm over your shoulder after your reading. You didn't even startle when he did it, like it's happened a hundred times.

Watching you talk with them, so at ease with the place and yourself, was wonderful. But I can't pretend it didn't hurt.

I've told myself over and over that I'm not going to try to get close, that it's best if I remain at a distance. Just a customer. That all fell apart tonight, and I can't bring myself to be upset.

Perhaps it was always inevitable, once I knew you were here.

I'm not sure what I'm hoping for anymore. 

Tonight, I just enjoyed seeing you happy. 

Love,

Jon

Martin

Friday, 24 May 2019, 23:34

Me: Thank you for everything today, Martin. Tonight was lovely.

Martin: of course! thanks for coming! hope you are doing ok ☺️

Me: Much better after tonight. Thank you.

Martin: i'm glad. get some rest!

Me: I will. Good night.

Me:  :)

Martin: night!

IV.

After that day, Jon begins to stay longer at the coffee shop.

You don't usually have much time for conversation—you're still working, after all—but it makes you happy in a way you can't quite define just to see them sitting at a table by the window, cradling their cup of tea, rather than rushing out as soon as they have their drink.

Sometimes they bring a book, but often they'll pull out a notebook and spend the time writing. You can't help but be curious what they're writing about, but you would never dream of asking.

You catch them watching you, sometimes. Not in a creepy way—in fact there's something comforting about the knowledge that they're nearby. The weight of their gaze. Whenever they notice you noticing they blush and duck their head back to their book or notebook in a way that is thoroughly endearing.

You just smile and return to your work. 

Martin,

I never used to be the sort of person who sat in coffee shops. I never understood the point—surely if you wanted to read or work, someplace quiet like the library or your own flat would be better? The noise, the people—I thought I would hate it.

And maybe I would have, back then. Now the bustle and hubbub are almost comforting. It's a reminder that for now, at least, the world is normal, that people are going about their daily lives, drinking coffee, meeting friends. And I like being able to look up from my book and see the interactions going on around me. Ordinary people, it turns out, are a fascinating study.

Of course, often it's not the patrons that I'm watching.

I try not to stare too much. I know I'm only a customer to you, right now, and I don't want to cross any lines or make you uncomfortable. But I can't help glancing up sometimes. You get a look of intense concentration on your face when you're making drinks, and it reminds me of cooking together in the safehouse. You would have the same expression whenever I gave you anything to taste.

I miss those days. I wish I remembered more about them. At the time, I thought I was savoring every moment—even then we knew that the fragile peace we had there couldn't last forever. But there's so much I don't recall. What did we make? What foods were our favorites, and which were disasters? What was the title of the awful romance novel you found on the shelves that we took turns reading aloud because it was so ridiculous? Why didn't I pay closer attention?

Being here in this coffee shop, sharing this space with you, is a shadow of what we used to have, but nevertheless I find myself wanting to hold onto every moment of it, to record it somehow so I don't lose any more pieces of you. I have so few left.

You've caught me looking again. The first time it happened I was afraid you'd be upset, but you just smiled and went back to what you were doing.

That's something that's changed, since we first met here: when you smile at me now, it's your real smile, your full smile. Like you're actually happy to see me. It makes my heart stutter, sets butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and any other romantic cliche you could name, when you smile at me like that. I treasure every one of them.

Love,

Jon

You and Jon text, occasionally. 

It starts with a conversation about Jon's cat, who has the unlikely name of the Commodore, and who, you discover, Jon will gush about at the least provocation. When you express interest they offer to send you a picture, and of course you say yes, and now Commodore pictures are one of the highlights of your days.

The pictures evolve into small conversations, and you begin to learn little things about them.

They are a children's librarian at a branch of the public library in Islington.

They have a flatmate named Tim, whom they speak of with a fond exasperation that makes your throat feel hot and tight, for no reason you can fathom.

They have a love-hate relationship with trashy mystery novels that makes you laugh—for a while they bring a different one to the shop every time they come, and always comment on how the characters are flat and the clues are clumsy, but they keep reading them.

(Once, they excitedly tell you about a murder mystery film they just watched that was "just masterful , Martin, the placement of the clues and the way that the characters are all so recognizable types but not caricatures, somehow, and then the whole thing turns on its head in the second half and you have to re-frame everything you thought you knew—"

And then, to your great regret, they notice the growing line behind them and cut themself off to give their order.)

They like lemon, and gooseberry, and really anything with fruit but especially the ones that have a bit of bite to them.

They like spicy food—they mention once that they've found a new Thai restaurant that actually has proper spice levels, and you fantasize for a moment about asking them if they would like to go with you sometime before shaking yourself out of that particular train of thought.

You haven't seen Jon outside of the shop since your poetry night—and that's fine. You're fine with that, even if you sometimes dream of what it would be like to have a conversation that wasn't cut short by impatient customers, or more patient but equally insistent managers.

For now, you're enjoying getting to know them piece by piece, text by text. 

Jon

Tuesday, 8 October 2019, 13:07

Me: hey just wanted to let you know i'm not going to be in today

Me: i have the flu 🙁

Me: not that it means you shouldn't come today

Me: or that you would decide to not come because i'm not there

Me: i just thought i'd let you know

Me: in case you wondered where i was

Me: anyway

Jon: Thank you for letting me know. I'm sorry you're not feeling well.

Jon: Make sure you drink water. Fluids are very important when you're sick.

Jon: Especially if you have a fever

Jon: Do you have everything you need? Medicine, etc.?

Jon: Perhaps some soup?

Me: i'm fine jon, really 

Me: no fever, just really congested

Me: and yes i'm well supplied with paracetamol and soup, don't worry

Jon: All right

Jon: The Commodore and I both hope you get better soon.

Jon: [picture]

Me: thanks 🙂

Martin,

Sometimes I wonder why I still remember.

When I woke up, it felt like my brain had broken in two. I was disoriented—not because I didn't recognize where I was, but because I did . I knew I was in my bedroom, that the alarm that had woken me up was the first of three that I had set to make sure I got up in time to get to work. But I also knew that I had never been in this room before, that a moment ago I had been with you in the Panopticon, with a wound in my chest that should have killed me.

I looked at my hands, scar-less and smooth, and they looked entirely foreign to me, but also exactly like my hands had always looked. (I don't have any of my scars here. I don't think it's quite accurate to say I miss them. Not really. But it feels strange.)

It was like I had two sets of memories in my head, and they contradicted each other completely but they were both entirely true.

It only got worse when I got up and went out into the rest of the flat. Every step was somehow a new discovery and yet at the same time, entirely familiar.

Then I made it out to the living room, and Tim was there. When I saw him, I had to close my eyes and sort out the two competing memories in my brain—one of Tim, my flatmate, who worked in publishing and liked to try to drag me out to the bar on occasion, and one of…our Tim. A friend who I lost long before he died.

At some point—I wasn't sure when—I must have started crying.

Tim asked me what was wrong, of course, because he's still Tim, and he cares so much. I told him that I had just had a bad dream. I told him that he had died in the dream, and he hugged me and told me that it was okay, that it wasn't real.

For a while, I wondered if that was true. If everything I remembered of our world had really just been a long, terrible dream.

But it's not. I Know it's not.

Why is it that I remember everything, and you don't? Why am I left here holding the burden of everything that happened, alone?

Sometimes I wish I had forgotten too. It would be easier, certainly. Fewer nightmares.

But then of course, it would mean forgetting you, and I

I'm afraid of losing you. The you of my memories. I'm afraid, more and more, that the Martin I know here is like Tim—another version entirely. No way of getting back to the Martin that I knew.

If you are truly gone, then I am the only one in this universe (and maybe any) who holds your memory. I can't regret the rest, if it means holding onto that.

Love,

Jon

V.

Jon

Monday, 14 October 2019, 15:22

Jon: How are you feeling?

Me: much better! back at work tomorrow. hope to see you soon?

Jon: Yes, I'll be there. I'm glad to hear you're feeling better.

Me: ☺️

Me: The Commodore pictures definitely helped

Jon: I'm happy to hear it.

Jon: Make sure you take it slow the first day back.

Me: says the person who regularly works on their day off

Jon: Sometimes I want to get ahead!

Jon: Planning programs is a lot easier when the library is empty anyway. It's quiet.

Me: mmhmm

Jon: It's not the same as recovering from being sick.

Me: mmhmm

Me: don't worry, i'll make sure to take my breaks

Jon: Good.

Jon: It will be good to have you back.

Me: because i save you the best pastries?

Jon: Yes, that is it. This is all a ruse to keep myself in lemon tarts.

Me: i knew it

Me: see you tomorrow ☺️

Jon: See you tomorrow :)

Your hands are sweating.

Your hands are sweating and your heart is beating uncomfortably fast in your chest, and you can't seem to keep still, your fingers beating an irregular tattoo against your leg as you count down the last five minutes of your shift.

(You deliberately didn't drink any caffeine today, knowing you'd be nervous. It doesn't seem to have helped.)

If you hadn't taken your temperature three times this morning, you wonder if you had belatedly developed a fever.

You've had a lot of time to think, while you were sick. It was the sort of sick that left you with just enough brainpower to lay in bed and turn uncomfortable truths over and over in your head, and one of those truths was—well, Jon.

Up to now you've been able to push any feelings you might have aside—yes, you've been enjoying your conversations with them, slowly getting to know them bit by bit. You think you might even be able to say that you've crossed the line from customer/employee to friends. But you've never let yourself think beyond that.

The last few days, you've had nothing to do but think, and all the thoughts and feelings you've been pushing aside came to the fore.

You like Jon.

You like them a lot.

And—even thinking it feels like it might jinx it—it seems like they like you, too. At least, they never seem annoyed or put out when you chat with them at the register, or when you text them a stupid joke you heard at poetry night.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

So maybe…just maybe…?

You're not sure if it was the enforced isolation that did it, or an excess of cold medicine, or what. But by the time you started to feel human again, you'd decided.

When you got back to work, you were going to ask Jon to dinner.

It had to be your first day back, you knew, or you would completely lose your nerve. At this point you know Jon's routine: on Tuesdays they would always come in sometime in the afternoon, and sit for an hour or two at the table by the window, reading or writing in their notebook. Usually they would still be there when you ended your shift, and you would wave at them on your way out. A few times, they were leaving at the same time, and you'd walked together to the Tube before going your separate ways. (You've cherished those times, the rare opportunities to have an actual, real conversation.) There's no reason for today to be any different.

Still, you spent the first part of your shift worrying—what if they couldn't come that day? What if they didn't decide to stay but instead just got their drink and left? But they'd come in at their usual time, greeted you with a warm smile and a "welcome back" before ordering their usual drink and taking up their spot at the window.

The rest of the shift passed at a snail's pace, and you kept glancing up at Jon, afraid you'd look up and see they'd gone. But finally, finally, it's five minutes to three, and Jon is still at their table, seemingly engrossed in their book.

You fumble your way through you last tasks with such shaky hands that Diana asks you if you're feeling all right. You nod and give what you hope is a coherent response—though by the odd look Diana gives you you're not sure if you succeed—and hurry to the back to grab your things before she can say anything else. One hastily gathered tea and pastry later (no more lemon tarts, alas, so you grab an almond croissant), and you finally make your way over to Jon's table.

Jon looks up and smiled as you approached their table—and you don't think you imagined a little edge of relief in their expression.

You smile back, though your heart is beating harder than you'd like to admit.

"Mind if I join you?"

There's a moment when Jon looks so startled that you're afraid you've overstepped. But then they smile again, and gesture to the seat across from them.

"Please."

You sit, placing the croissant carefully in the middle of the table so you can both reach it.

There's a moment where you're afraid you'll just sit there staring at each other—but then Jon asks you how you're feeling, and the conversation quickly moves to trashy television and the ways you entertained yourself while you were sick. It feels natural, easy, and you are almost able to get your heart rate back to a normal level. Then there is a lull in the conversation, and all the nervousness comes rushing back.

You sip your tea, just to have something to do with your hands. Jon, after a questioning look to you, busies themself with carefully pulling the croissant into equal pieces. It's probably only a few seconds of silence—far less time than the last time you sat together. But today, rather than feeling comfortable and companionable, the silence makes your leg jiggle even faster as you sit and watch Jon carefully separate the layers of pastry.

You just have to do it, then.

"Jon, can I ask you something?"

Jon looks up, eyebrow raised. "Um. Sure."

Right. Okay. Okay.

This is it.

You take a shaky breath and put down your mug.

"Well, I've been—I've been really enjoying getting to know you, over the last few months, and I like to think—I think we're becoming friends. Which is great! I love being friends, and I'm happy to have you as my friend. But I was wondering if—if you would maybe—if you would like to go to dinner with me? Sometime?"

You haven't managed to look at Jon while you said any of this, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the table in front of you. When they don't respond right away, you stumble on.

"I know coffee is kind of the usual first thing but we're around coffee all the time and I thought it might be good to try something different. But we could do lunch, too, if that's—if that's better?" You let out a small, shaky laugh, unable to contain your nerves. "But yeah, um. That—that was it. That's my—um, my question."

Another pause. Still no response.

After a moment, you finally get the courage to look up.

You're not sure what you expected Jon's reaction to be. You know what you've hoped for, what you've fantasized—that dazzling smile, Jon saying in that soft way of theirs, "I would like that very much, Martin."

Of course you've imagined the worst case scenarios, too. Jon flushing with embarrassment, stammering that they're flattered but they just don't think of you that way. Or worse, their face twisting into a look of disgust as they ask why you thought they would ever want to have dinner with you.

(This one only happens in your nightmares. When you're awake, you know that Jon is far too kind to say something so cruel).

This is—not any of those.

It takes you a moment to place the look on Jon's face. They are staring at you with wide eyes, almost a mirror of the look they gave you the first time you met. Just like that time, their cheeks have gone ashen, like all the blood has drained from their face.

And you realize what is in that expression, at the heart of it: 

It's fear.

Jon is looking at you like they've seen a ghost.

You open your mouth again to say—something. You don't know what—ask if they're all right, maybe (although it's a bit of a stupid question, of course they're not all right, looking like that), or maybe to apologize.

But before you can get any words out, Jon stands, so quickly that their chair tips over backwards behind them. They don't seem to notice.

"I-I'm sorry, I have to—"

They back away, nearly tripping over their upturned chair. You reach out on instinct to catch them as they stumble and Jon flinches away from you, as though your hands were red-hot metal.

You freeze where you are, arms still half-outstretched.

"I'm sorry, I can't—I never should—" Jon stumbles a few more steps away. "I-I have to go. I'm sorry."

And then they're gone, the tinkling of the bell on the door the only remaining sign of their passage.

You just stand there for a moment, frozen. Unsure what just happened—only sure that whatever it was, it was your fault.

If only you had just kept your mouth shut, a nasty voice whispers in your mind, and you make no effort to resist it. It's right.

You let your hands fall to your sides, looking at the door where Jon disappeared. Then you lean over, mechanically, and pick up the chair that is still laying on the floor.

There is a notebook on the floor next to the chair. You recognize it instantly—Jon's notebook, the one they're always writing in when they come to the shop ( they won't be coming by anymore, not after this, the voice whispers). It must have fallen out of their pocket when they stood up.

You reach down to pick it up. Presumably some part of your brain is thinking that you should work out a way to get it back to Jon, somehow. But the rest of your brain isn't thinking that far ahead, filled with empty white noise, static, and that voice whispering over and over.

Idiot. Imbecile. Well done. You've chased them away and now they'll never, ever come back.

You are vaguely aware that the other people in the shop are staring at you. Diana might be saying something to you. Later, you're sure you'll feel some way about it, but right now all your feelings are buried under that static.

Without thinking too hard, you pick up the notebook and put it in your pocket.

You right the fallen chair, tuck it back into the table.

You put your mug in the bus tub by the door, and throw away the uneaten croissant.

You go home.

VI.

Jon

Me: i'm so sorry about today, i don't know what i was
(unsent)

Me: jon, i hope i didn't
(unsent)

Me: I'm sorry if I overstepped today. I would never want to make you uncomfortable. I really like being friends with you, and I hope you can forgive me.
(unsent)

Me: I understand if you need space. But when you're ready, can we talk about it?
(unsent)

Martin,

You asked me out today.

I did not react well.

I know they say that grief is a process, that it takes time, that it's different for everyone and it's all right to feel whatever you might feel.

None of the advice on grief covers what to do if you're able to regularly see and speak to someone who looks and sounds so much like the person you are grieving, but fundamentally—isn't.

I allowed myself to get too comfortable, I think. I thought that I could see you, this other you, and keep you separate. Not let the memory of the you I am mourning bleed onto this other person who is both you and not.

I see now that this is impossible. It's impossible for me to look at any version of you and not see the man I love. It hurts, and I think I have begun to seek out that hurt more than I should.

I'm so afraid of forgetting you. All the little mannerisms that you used to have: the way that you close your eyes when you take the first sip of tea; the pitch of your laugh when you're genuinely surprised by a joke; the tone of your voice when you are pretending to be polite but are in fact being just the right amount of petty. 

I think I believed that I could hold onto those details if I spent time around this other you. And it works—until suddenly he does something unexpected, something I never thought you would do. Ordinarily, I would be delighted, to learn something new about you, the way you are—but here, all it does is remind me that this man who looks and acts so much like you—isn't. Not really.

I can't keep looking for something that's not there. I can't keep hoping for a miracle. Surely, if you were going to remember, you would have by now.

The Martin of this reality is not you, and I don't think he ever will be.

And I don't know if it's fair for either of us for me to keep holding on.

I've been thinking that these last few months are proof that you were wrong before, that we're compatible even without enduring years of trauma together. I still think it's true. If there were a way for me to forget, to meet you without the memories of what used to be…who knows.

But there isn't. And I've come to realize that spending time with you—with him—like this is hurting me more than it's helping. And it's only a matter of time before it starts to hurt him as well, before my inability to divorce my memories of you from the reality of him begins to cause him harm.

So I have to do what I should have done months ago. I have to let you go, really and truly. 

[Here the paper is splotched with teardrops. The handwriting gets shakier, and in places the ink has run and the writing is difficult to read.]

I don't want

I can't

I don't know how I'm going to do this. But I think it is for the best.

I love you, Martin. So much.

Jon

Martin

Me: I'm so sorry about today, I didn't mean to
(unsent)

Me: Martin, I hope I didn't upset you, it was never my intention to
(unsent)

Me: Martin, I feel I owe you an explanation. My reaction today was nothing to do with you, I simply
(unsent)

Me: I used to have a boyfriend, before. He died, and I've never really…recovered. You remind me of him so much, Martin, and it's not fair to you if I
(unsent)

Me: You are wonderful, Martin. And you deserve someone who isn't looking at you trying to conjure old ghosts.
(unsent)

Jon

Friday, 18 October 2019, 09:21

Jon: Martin, I want to apologize for my behavior the other day. My reaction was extreme. Please rest assured that it was nothing you said or did; there are elements of my past I have yet to fully reckon with, and my emotions caught me off guard. Still, it wasn't fair to you, and I am so sorry for any upset or hurt I caused you.

I would like a chance to explain, if I can. Would you be amenable to meeting tonight?

09:25

Jon: I understand if you would rather not see me. 

09:28

Me: it's okay, Jon, you don't have to
(unsent)

Me: of course, but you don't have to explain if you don't want to
(unsent)

Me: i'm the one who should apologize, i
(unsent)

09:45

Me: Sure. what time?

It's three days later when you get the text from Jon. You'd resigned yourself to never hearing from them again—especially when you couldn't bring yourself to send any of the apologies you've half-typed out over the last few days. You know you should reach out, make sure they're okay, but something's always stopped you from finishing the text. 

Shame, probably. Or fear of what Jon might say in response. Fear that they might say nothing at all.

You know you've been making a mess of things at work, but you can't bring yourself to care. All you can think about as you mechanically make drinks and take orders is the expression on Jon's face before they ran away. Your time at home is spent staring mindlessly at the telly and trying your best to ignore your silent phone.

Jon's text, when it finally arrives, predictably comes when you are in the shower. When you notice it, you almost drop your phone in your haste to respond, and even then it still takes you nearly twenty minutes to work out what to say.

You and Jon agree to meet at the coffee shop tonight after closing. You can have some privacy there (it's an easy enough task to persuade Hannah to let you finish up on your own, so she can get home to her baby), and it's…neutral ground, for lack of a better phrase. You can't have this conversation at either of your flats, for obvious reasons. And besides, this is where you met. It feels right, if this is the last conversation you have ( it's not, it can't be, it can't end like this) , that it happens here.

You shoo Hannah out of the shop soon after seven, then you lock the door and force yourself to concentrate only on your closing tasks. You finish all of your cleaning in record time, wanting to be sure everything is done before Jon arrives.

The downside of this is that then you have nothing to do but sit and wait.

You move tables several times, settling finally at Jon's usual table by the window. You sit, leg jiggling, trying not to create disaster scenarios in your head of what Jon might say when they get here.

Without thinking, you pull their notebook out of your pocket, running the pages through your fingers.

You've taken it out many times, in the days since you picked it up. You've never opened it. You've told yourself that it would be a massive invasion of privacy, even if you can't help being desperately curious.

But you've kept it with you, tucked carefully into the inside pocket of your jacket, irrationally afraid that something bad will happen if you let it leave your sight.

You flick the pages through your fingers again like a flip-book, too fast to see anything of what is written inside. You do it over and over, faster and faster, until your fingers fumble and the notebook drops to the floor with a whap! that sounds unnaturally loud in the empty shop.

You bend down to pick it up. The binding is soft and worn, and the notebook has landed flat and face-up, its pages fanning open. You try not to look at what is written inside, you really do—but you can't help catching on the word at the top of the page because it's—

It's your name.

You flip a few pages, careful to only look at the top lines, and—

There it is again. Over and over.

Your name.

These are all letters, addressed to you.

You've seen Jon writing in this notebook countless times, and all this time, they've been writing—to you? Why?

There is something tugging at the back of your mind, like when you wake up and know you had a dream, but can't remember what it was about.

You turn to the front of the notebook and look at the first page, and without really knowing why, you start to read.

Martin,

I know you'll never read this. I know I'm writing to a version of you that no longer exists. 

The tugging in your mind is getting stronger, even as Jon's words don't make any sense. Another version of you?

It hurts to think it, still. The fact that you're gone. But I'm writing anyway, because I miss you, more than I can put into words. 

You're not gone, you think. You're right here. I'm right here. I haven't gone anywhere. I miss you, too.

But why would you miss them? They've been right here this whole time, you both have—

And because I saw you today, for the first time since I arrived here.

Oh.

You remember the way Jon looked at you that first day, that deer-in-the-headlights look. The joy and grief in their face, like they were looking at someone they had thought they'd never see again.

You remember that you've never asked them how they knew your name, that day.

I'm ashamed to say I had given up on ever finding you. I used to look for you everywhere. When I first woke up I was certain you must be near, that we had just gotten separated but that we would find each other again, somehow.

One way or another, together.

One way or another, together.

One way or another, together.

You stare at those words as they begin to echo in your head, over and over, until your temples pound as though the words have been shouted at you. They bring with them the sound of static and a rumble and roaring as if of some far-off explosion, the sensation of everything around you shaking and beginning to fall apart

the smell of ozone and a tang of iron, like blood

the weight of something heavy in your hand, a smooth grip covered in something that is somehow slippery and sticky all at once

your chest is tight with fear and anger and grief and you don't understand what could have made you feel this way, but you are so afraid for them and so angry at them because

because

they left you, how could they leave you , you were supposed to do this together

together

One way or another, together

Where you go, I go

That's the deal.

Your chest heaves in a sob so violent that it feels like it's going to tear you in half.

Oh my god.

Jon.

Jon appears in the doorway just as you collapse, one hand pressed to your mouth, the notebook falling from your numb fingers to the floor.

VII.

My first thought on seeing you collapse to your knees as I enter the coffee shop is that something has gone horribly wrong, that one of the Entities found you somehow, that I'd taken my eye from you for a second too long and you'd been hurt.

I rush to you, trying to catch you before you fall completely. I cradle one hand against the back of your head to protect it from the corner of the table, and bring the other to your cheek, all those months of careful distance forgotten in my concern.

"Martin? Martin, are you all right? What's happened?"

Instead of responding, you just collapse further.

"I'm sorry, Jon. I'm so so sorry."

Oh .

Of course.

No Entities, nothing supernatural after all. This is just pure human emotion, and I'm the cause of it.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and try—and fail—to keep my voice from shaking.

"Please don't—none of this is your fault, Martin. I shouldn't have—I put you in an impossible position, and I—I'm so—"

You just shake your head, reaching up to take my hand and clinging to it like a lifeline.

"No, Jon, I-I-I remember. I remember everything."

And at that, it feels like everything 

just

stops.

I know that we are still kneeling together on the floor of the coffee shop, that your hand is still clutched tight around mine, but it all feels distant. 

There's no way you just said what I thought I heard you say.

"You…?"

"One way or another. Together." Your hand clenches mine so tight it hurts. "The Panopticon, and Jonah—the knife still had his blood all over it, and I killed you, Jon, I—"

You collapse into tears again, and I should pull you close, reassure you, comfort you, but I can't, because I cannot process the words you just said.

It's everything I've wanted, all I've dreamed of all these months, and there is no way that this is real. 

The world is not that kind.

"This is a dream."

It's the obvious explanation. I don't dream much, not anymore, but there have been a few times that I've dreamed something like this—a moment where you were you again. The moment I realize it isn't real is always the worst part.

I stand up so fast that you nearly fall over where you had been leaning into me. You look up, startled out of your tears.

"Jon?"

I take a step back.

"This isn't real, this can't be real, I'm dreaming—"

This is usually the part where the dream dissolves, where I wake and curl under the covers as if making myself as small as possible will somehow lessen the emptiness in my chest.

But instead, this time, everything stays. You stand, and reach out to me, and your hand is warm and rough with calluses and real.

"Jon, look at me."

Martin, I've never been so afraid to look at you.

But I do, and when I do, I—

I see you.

I look in your eyes and I see the whole of you, all the parts of you I thought were gone forever. And you look at me and it's like it's the first time you've really looked at me since I found you. You look at me and I feel seen . 

"This is real," you say. "I'm real, I promise. I remember. I'm so sorry it took me so long."

You bring a hand up to my cheek, cradling it like something fragile, something precious, and I can't—

I never thought—

It's not until this moment that I realize how truly I had come to believe that you were gone. That I would never feel this again, the sensation of you holding me so gently.

But now, the warmth of your hand against my skin is so familiar, so real ,

And I finally believe that you are really here.

And that's when the dam inside me breaks.

I haven't cried much, since I got here. It feels like a contradiction, but it's true. 

I cried the day I woke up here, in this strange, familiar place, alone.

I cried the day I found you, and saw that you were still missing.

I cried today, when I decided I had to let you go.

But even those times have been…controlled, in a way. A release of pressure, without ever really letting go.

Now, finally, knowing that you are here to catch me,

I let go.

You hold me for a long time, there on the floor of the coffee shop where I'd found you again (where I thought I'd lost you forever).

It feels as though every emotion that I have repressed or bottled up in the years since everything started has come to the surface. At times there is a lull, and I'll think I've reached the end of it, let all of it out. But then I notice the texture of your jumper, or the fact that you've painted your fingernails mint green. Then you murmur softly that you're here, it hits me that this is real, and I'm drowning again.

I don't know how long it lasts. For the moment, time has ceased to have any meaning.

Finally, I'm able to bring myself under control enough to ask,

"How?"

You reach down and pick up the notebook from where it's fallen open on the floor.

"I read your letter."

For a moment all I can do is stare at the notebook in your hand. I'd known I'd lost it—it was one of the things I'd mourned, these last few days. That not only was I giving you up, but I had lost the notebook that held all the memories of the last few months.

I never once thought that you might have found it.

"I-I didn't mean to, I—it just fell open, and I saw my name, and then, it just—it felt like there was something missing, like I was missing something, and so I—"

I reach up to take your hand.

"Martin, you—you don't have to explain. If it—if it's the reason you remembered, I'm so glad you did."

"I promise I won't read anymore unless you want me to."

"Thank you. I-I don't think I mind. I wrote them to you, after all. Although I should warn you to be prepared for a certain amount of melodrama."

"You, melodramatic? Never."

You give me that small, sideways little smile you always give when you're teasing me and something enormous and unnameable swells in my chest. 

"Stop, it wasn't as though I thought anyone would ever—ever read them."

My voice wavers as everything begins to overflow again. I close my eyes and press a hand to my mouth, trying to ride the wave of emotion instead of being bowled over by it again.

"I'm sorry, it's just—a lot. Overwhelming."

"Yeah," you say. Your voice is a little shaky too, and when I look up at you your eyes are also red-rimmed. 

I realize that in my collapse, I've thoroughly ignored how disorienting this must be for you. How you must be now experiencing that same feeling I did when I first arrived: the combating memories, two lives trying to reconcile themselves together in your head.

How the horror of those final moments in the Panopticon must feel so terribly present.

I reach up to pull you close, trying to reciprocate even a fraction of the comfort you've been giving me. Your arms tighten around me, and you bury your face in my shoulder. Your hair smells like lavender and mint.

"I love you, Jon," you say, and I close my eyes against a fresh wave of tears. I never thought I'd hear you say that again. Not out loud.

"I love you," I say, and I don't think I've ever meant it so much.

And we stay like that for a long time: sitting on the floor of the coffee shop, holding each other. Together.

Martin,

You're asleep while I'm writing this. The morning sun catches on your curls and makes tiny shadows under your eyelashes and I am once again overwhelmed at the knowledge that you are here now, truly here. 

It seems perhaps a bit silly to still be writing you letters when you are right here next to me, but I felt like I needed some…closure, I suppose?

The last letter I wrote you, I thought I was going to have to give you up forever. I know now that's not true, but it didn't feel right, to leave off like that.

We finally left the coffee shop sometime after midnight. We might have stayed longer, but eventually you pointed out that Diana would not appreciate walking in to find us passed out on the floor, so we made our way back to your flat. (It is exactly how I imagined it.)

When I woke up this morning, in an unfamiliar bed with you next to me, I had a moment when I was afraid I was dreaming after all. It all seemed too good to be true. I made myself focus on the sound of you breathing next to me, on the way my throat and eyes still ached from all the emotion last night. I remembered the way it felt when I looked at you and Saw you, all of you, reminding myself that this is real.

I know we have a lot to work through. You remember everything now, which means that you remember how it all ended. The decisions we both made, at the end. At some point we're going to have to talk about it.

But for now, I'm allowing myself to just be grateful to have you here, and whole. I never imagined we could have this again: a soft bed, morning sun filtering through the window, birds singing outside, and no reason to get up unless we want to. Both of us here together, and a future ahead of us that contains, I hope, many more days like this.

There is the possibility that we could grow old together, Martin and that—

Well. I'm going to try not to start crying again, so I'll just leave it there.

I love you. I'm so happy you're here.

Jon

[Underneath, in a different handwriting:]

I love you too. <3

Martin